


Thanksgiving at the Burkes

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Paladin 'Verse [28]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alpacas, Appalling Nicknames, Domesticity, F/M, Food Porn, Holidays, M/M, Multi, OT3, Pie, Recreational Drug Use, Schmoop, Ugly Sweaters, paladin 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:44:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter’s folks invite Neal to spend Thanksgiving with them.  Peter’s not exactly sure introducing Neal to them will be a good thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanksgiving at the Burkes

**Author's Note:**

> This is, officially, the oldest WIP I have ever finished. I started writing it sometime in April, 2010, added several thousand words in the late fall of 2011, before abandoning again. If not for my lovely friend, doctor_fangeek, it may well have been another year before this was finished. This one’s for you! 
> 
> Consider this part of the Paladin ‘verse, and note that Michael and Margaret Burke bear little resemblance to Peter's parents from The Wonder(ful) Years 'verse, although I love them almost as much.

Peter was very hesitant about bringing Neal to Thanksgiving with his parents. Not that he thought they’d figure out that he and Elizabeth were in an emotional and sexual relationship with Neal. No, what Peter was worried about was what Neal would get up to with his folks, his father in particular.

When he told El about his concerns, she shared them. “You know, Peter – you can’t keep this secret forever. Neal’s going to find out eventually, and then all hell is going to break loose.” But there was laughter on her lips. 

His wife was clearly anticipating the meeting between Neal Caffrey, quondam thief, conman, and forger, and Michael Burke, retired construction foreman, bricklayer, and father.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

If ever there was a telephone conversation that made him want to bang his head against the wall, it was the one he had with his father right after Election Day. _“I want you to bring your young man for Thanksgiving. No arguments.”_

“My **what**?”

_”Your young man, the one you have working for you now. The guy you put in prison twice. Elliebits has told me all about him. He doesn’t have any family of his own, so you need to bring him.”_

Peter shook his head in exasperation. That his father would call Neal his “young man” though, that was a little odd. It was as if he was dating Neal and had to bring him home for his father’s approval. What had El been telling Dad?

“I’ll ask Neal if he’s free…”

_“Don’t ask him. Just tell him he’s coming to Thanksgiving dinner. Your mother is expecting him.”_

Peter hoped that his father didn’t hear the rising level of frustration in his sigh. One would think that a retired construction worker would have a rather conservative outlook on life. Dealing with his parents was a challenge, and not because of their advancing age. It had always been this way, at least since college. They were a colorful pair, and had a completely different outlook on life from those of his peers. 

Despite his reservations about introducing Neal to his folks, the invitation was something of a blessing. Peter had been wondering just what Neal was going to do for the holiday, and he felt terrible about leaving him behind. Every year that he and El were married, they spent Thanksgiving with his parents and Christmas day with her family. Their personal relationship with Neal was unusual and, given the professional relationship, managing it required the utmost discretion. Bringing him without an invitation would have been strange, to say the least. 

He had considered suggesting that they do the holidays themselves this year – just the three of them, but El made a passing comment about her parents getting up there in years, and another one about being happy not having to cook a holiday meal, so he let it drop. 

But Peter didn’t want to be parted from Neal. Holidays were meant to be spent with family. But, with an invitation … it could work. 

_“You still there?”_

“Sorry Dad, I’ll give Neal your invitation, but if he does have other plans, he may not come.” Peter really had no clue as to what Neal was planning to do, although he suspected that June would welcome him at her table without a question. “If he does come, you and Mom will need to be on your best behavior.”

 _“Son, I’m hurt. As if I’d do anything to embarrass you in front of your co-worker.”_

Peter could hear the humor in Dad’s voice. His father knew exactly what Peter was talking about. “I’ll talk to Neal today and get back to you. Give my love to Mom.” He hung up the phone and just sat there. He suspected that Neal and his father would get on like a house on fire – and that was what terrified him.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Your parents want to meet me?” Neal didn’t bother to hide the delight in his voice. The invitation to Thanksgiving dinner pleased him in ways he could barely define. He didn’t have any specific plans this year. June was going to see her eldest daughter in Chicago. Moz had mentioned going to see the staging of the parade balloons on Wednesday night and maybe spend the day volunteering at a soup kitchen. He thought about helping out, but that wouldn’t be the same as having a real holiday with his lovers. His beloveds.

He knew, without being told, that Peter and Elizabeth just couldn’t bring him along to their family functions without raising questions that couldn’t really be answered – such as why their “plus-1” was a man Peter once put in prison. But an invitation that specifically included Neal, that was something else.

“So, do you want to come?” Peter’s voice held some reservation, and Neal wondered if he wanted him to decline.

“Unless there’s a reason for me not to go. If you don’t want me there, I’ll understand.” He would, but it would still hurt just a little bit.

Peter reached out and in a caress of affection, rubbed his thumb against Neal’s cheek and threaded his fingers through his hair. “No, I want you there, but my folks are, well, a little … _different_. They live on a farm in upstate New York.”

“Wait. You’ve always said your father was in construction. Why are they living on a farm?” Neal was, to say the least, surprised. 

“My folks bought a small farm about ten years ago, after my dad retired. They raise alpacas now. It’s surprisingly profitable.”

“Alpacas?” That was the last thing Neal expected. “Why?”

“I don’t really know. They wanted something to do. My mother does something with the fur after it’s taken off the animals.”

“Wool, alpacas have wool – like sheep. And it’s shorn, not ‘taken off’.” Neal wanted to laugh, but Peter seemed so completely exasperated by his parents’ new career, it just wouldn’t be fair. He’d do some research before the holiday – learn something about alpaca farming and wool production, something that would make him an amusing and effective houseguest. 

“So, I’ll let my dad know you’ll be joining the family for the weekend.” 

“Weekend?” 

“Yeah, we usually stay through Saturday. Will that be a problem?” There was a resigned grimness to Peter’s tone now. Neal was all the more interested in meeting the parents.

“No, that will be fine. I’m really looking forward to meeting the people who created you.”

Peter looked like he was about to say something, then changed his mind, and then changed his mind again. “Neal – if my father asks you to join him in his “office” in the barn, remember, you can just say no.”

Neal wondered at the odd phrasing of that statement, but as Peter leaned in and started to kiss him, everything left his head except the need to taste and feel his lover’s heat.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Thanksgiving morning, six AM, was cold, dark, and mercifully dry. The drive upstate, to Grand Gorge – the scenic town closest to his parents’ farm – would take about four hours if they left now. If they waited until mid-morning to leave, the four-hour trip could stretch to nearly eight with the holiday traffic.

The area was more rural and small-townish than the Syracuse suburbs of Peter’s youth, and despite the fact that his folks were several hundred miles closer, the relative isolation of the area meant that there was little expectation of frequent visits. He loved his parents dearly, but spending excessive amounts of time with them had an unfortunate effect on his blood pressure.

El sat in the back. She actually demanded it, since it meant she could curl up with Satchmo on her lap and sleep for most of the trip. Neal had, as always, started out as a slightly annoying driving companion, fiddling with the radio, the navigation system, the temperature controls, until Peter snapped at him to settle down. “Jesus, Caffrey! You have the impulse control of a six-year-old!”

Neal grinned and pushed some buttons. “Are we there yet?”

Peter refused to allow himself to be dragged further into this routine. He mentally bit his lip to prevent himself from telling Neal that if he kept this up, they’d all turn around and go home. And then he started to laugh. Out loud.

“What’s so funny?”

“I am – I’m beginning to sound like an old man.”

“I bet you and Isabelle were little terrors on road trips.”

“Izzy, yes. I was a model child.”

Neal gave him that shit-eating grin he loved so much. “Riiiiiight.”

The traffic wasn’t bad once they cleared the downstate counties and Peter enjoyed the drive. El had dozed off in the back seat after they stopped and stretched their legs outside of New Paltz. Once he stopped fiddling with the various controls, Neal was a pleasant driving companion. The miles passed quickly as Peter exceeded the speed limit and they argued about the resolution of a recent case, neither man willing to give an inch.

“And that’s why I’m right.” Peter declared, enjoying himself.

“You’re right because you’re right? That’s stretching it, even for the great and mighty Peter Burke.”

“You don’t like it, feel free to hitch a ride back to the City.” Peter knew he was being smug, but he didn’t quite care. He took a sip from his travel mug.

“What I really want to know is will we be sharing a bed at your parents’ place?”

A fine spray of coffee hit the inside of the windshield. “You little …” Peter wiped his mouth. “You did that deliberately.”

Neal sat there, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “You mean, we’re not?”

“My parents may be unusual, but I don’t think even they would quite understand.” _Or maybe they would._ Vague memories of Uncle Andy and Aunt Coral aside, he wasn’t sure he was ready to find out, though.

“That’s the second time you’ve alluded to something not quite ordinary about your parents. I am definitely intrigued.”

 _Shit._

“Come on, are you going to make me suffer?”

Peter sucked in a deep breath. This weekend was going to be SUCH a mistake. “You’ll find out soon enough.” That was all he was willing to say.

“You’re mean.” 

“And you’re pouting. That doesn’t really become a grown man.”

“And yet you are constantly calling me Peter Pan.”

“Hmmm.”

The easy ride became a little more challenging as they turned off Route 28 and headed north, through the State Forest.

“Lovely country here, a little desolate though. Your folks must have trouble with coyotes.”

“How would you know that?”

Neal shrugged.

“Of course you know that – you’ve probably done research about alpaca farming. About the local wildlife, too. Did you teach yourself how to shear, card and spin wool, too?”

“And here I thought you knew nothing about your folks’ new livelihood.”

“I bet you taught yourself how to knit since you accepted the invitation.” Peter had to laugh; typical, typical Neal

Neal had the audacity to pull out a ball of yarn and what looked like a half-finished sock. He grinned and actually started knitting.

“No, no. Neal…”

“Oh, come on, Peter.”

“My mother is going to love you. And if you start talking about the merits of alfalfa feed with my father, they are going to lock you in the attic and never let you go. I am going to have a hell of a time explaining to Hughes why I need to have your radius permanently reset for two miles around Grand Gorge, New York.”

“That bad?”

“You have no idea. My folks.” Peter just shook his head. “I hope you like apple pie.”

“Who doesn’t like apple pie?”

“And home-made ice cream – vanilla, burnt sugar and probably a cinnamon spice variety. And organic turkey with cornbread stuffing, and oyster stuffing. And maybe a savory bread pudding stuffing. My father does most of the cooking. He does this thing with Brussels sprouts – deep fries them. They’re like candy.”

“Sweet potato casserole?” 

“Three kinds.” Peter grinned. “My father also makes real candy. His toffee, it’s like crack.”

“Is this where you get your stress baking from?” Neal had once suggested that if Peter ever lost his badge for good, he could become the CBO – Chief Baking Officer – for The Greatest Cake. Peter looked at him and said nothing. His silence spoke volumes.

“Yeah.” 

“Will you boys please stop it? I didn’t bring any pants with a stretch waistband, and your conversation has added at least two pounds right to my hips.”

“Hon, you know my folks.”

“Oh, yeah. Your dad.” She snickered and he cursed silently and emphatically.

“What _is_ it about Peter’s father?” Neal turned around to ask his wife.

“El --” Peter didn’t want her to spill the beans.

She just smiled at Neal. “Oh, sweetie. You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Peter said not to go into the barn office with him. He’s not going to abuse me, is he? Do I have to worry about bad touches?” There was actually a note of concern beneath the humor in Neal’s question.

“Neal!” Peter couldn’t believe he’d asked that.

“Well, you’re being all mysterious.”

“And I’m not saying another thing.”

Neal grumbled, El caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and Peter wondered if he should just turn around and head back to Brooklyn.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

They pulled up to an old and charming farm house nestled in a tree-rimmed valley. It looked like something out of a storybook. The front door was flung open and a man that Neal had to believe was Peter’s father bellowed up the stairs before they got out of the car. “Pumpkinhead's here! He’s brought his young man with him. And, of course, Ellibits.”

He turned to Peter and just mouthed “Pumpkinhead?” Peter rolled his eyes and gave him a look that spoke volumes, mostly about how he’d die a slow and painful death if anyone in the office heard about this.

Peter rather nonchalantly let go of Satchmo’s leash and the dog made a bee-line for the kitchen, diving between his father’s legs. El jabbed an elbow in his ribs and Neal stood there, bemused.

 _Pumpkinhead_.

“My dad has a thing for nicknames.” Peter whispered as they crowded into the foyer.

There was a strong resemblance between Peter and his father. The elder Burke was tall, lean, and despite his years, still muscular in a rangy way. He also had a lovely smile and the twinkle in his eye that made Neal think of a slightly demented subject of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Since Peter didn’t seem inclined to do anything but struggle with the luggage and Elizabeth made a dash for the bathroom, Neal held out his hand and introduced himself.

“So you’re the young man that’s been keeping my son on his toes?”

He looked over at Peter, who was once again giving him the Stare of Doom. 

“Yeah – you could put it that way.”

“Neal – that’s not short for Cornelius, is it?”

“No, just Neal, as in ‘steal.’ Or ‘real’.”

“Hmmm, Neal? What can I do with that?” The man pulled him into the kitchen, muttering under his breath. “Sit – do you want a drink? Some coffee? Pumpkinhead got us a fancy coffee maker last year. Does all sorts of interesting things.”

“Coffee sounds nice.” He tried to be the best possible guest and offered to help, but Michael wouldn’t let him.

“No, no – just sit back, relax. You want to watch the parade before we have dinner?” He pointed to the den and a big screen TV.

“No, this is fine. Everything smells delicious.” The kitchen was a lovely place, warm and homey. Satchmo had taken up a strategic position in front of the oven.

“That would be Maggie-My-Love’s doing. She’ll be down in a few.” Michael set a cup, cream and sugar in front of Neal. “Now, where is my son and dilly?”

“Dilly?” Peter’s father was definitely proving himself an eccentric.

“Daughter in law. Doesn’t ‘dilly’ sound nicer?” Michael fixed a cup for himself and sat down across from Neal. “So, tell me – how long have you known my son?”

Neal had the feeling that he was being interviewed – as spousal material. “On and off, about a decade.” That was the truth.

“He arrested you, right? Twice?”

“Actually, only one arrest, but he did catch me when I escaped from prison.”

“Chasing after a girl, or so Pumpkinhead told me.”

“Yeah.” Neal hoped _Pumpkinhead_ would appear soon, to put a stop to this interrogation.

“She’s dead now, isn’t she?” 

“Yes, she is. Murdered. Anything else you’d like to know?”

“Nope, not for the moment.” Michael smiled at him, eyes sharp and all too knowing.

“Dad, what are you doing?” Peter finally joined them.

“Oh, just having a little conversation with your friend here. Neal – Neal as in steal.” He was muttering to himself again. “I’m going to go up and see what’s taking your mother so long. Thought she’d be down before you crossed the threshold.”

Michael left them there. Neal just looked at Peter. He didn’t quite know what to say.

“No comments. You’re the one who wanted to come. You could have said no.”

“He’s interesting. Not what I expected.”

Peter sat down next to him. “You’d think a man who spent forty-five years in construction would be kind of – well – conservative in his demeanor.”

Neal shrugged. “I guess.” 

“I shouldn’t complain, I know.”

“No, honestly – you shouldn’t.”

Peter glared at him.

Neal took a sip of the rather excellent coffee. “Can I ask you something?”

“Hmmm, ask. Can’t promise to answer.”

“What’s with the names?”

“You mean Elliebits and Maggie-My-Love and …”

“Pumpkinhead.”

“Yeah – Pumpkinhead.” Peter made a cup of coffee for himself. Neal could see it for what it was – a delaying tactic.

“Peter?”

“He’s always had this thing for nicknames. And if you ever call me Pumpkinhead…”

“But why Pumpkinhead – you weren’t a redhead as a kid, were you?”

“No, not hardly. There’s no rhyme or reason to how he names people. He calls my sister Isabelle ‘Discoball.’ ‘Elliebits’ is probably the tamest of his nicknames.”

“Maggie-My-Love isn’t so bad.” Neal took a sip of coffee.

“My mother’s name is Lillian.”

He choked and coffee went all over the place. “That was payback from before, isn’t it? Your mother’s name isn’t Lillian. It’s Margaret. Margaret MacDonald Burke.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry.” Peter’s grin was full of mischief.

Neal had to grin. Seeing Peter like this was adorable. “Your father seems confounded by my name.”

“Neal is a little simple, he seems to need syllables to work with, but you’ll have something before you leave.”

“What will he have?” Elizabeth finally vacated the bathroom.

“A nickname.”

“Ah – that’ll be the least …”

“El – ” 

She snorted in frustration. “Okay, okay.”

Neal stared at the two of them. This was a repeat of their mysterious conversation in the car. “What’s going on?”

“Just stay out of the office in the barn – okay?” Peter nailed him with the look.

He threw up his hands in defeat. “I promise, I will try to stay out of the barn office.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

If Neal stayed out of the office in the barn, just maybe, maybe, they’d make it through this weekend with nothing more than a silly nickname or two.

And a hideous sweater.

“Peter!” His mother came running. “Give these old bones a hug.”

He held her tight and she squeezed him back hard enough to make him wheeze. He coughed, and caught his breath when she let go.

“Sorry I didn’t come down when you arrived. I wanted to finish this.” She held up a sweater and Peter tried not to wince. It was almost as bad as the one El's mother had made him. Almost.

“It’s … very lovely, Mom.” There was no doubting the quality of the knitting, or the wool, but the colors were an eye-bleeding combination of purples, reds and greens in a vaguely Icelandic pattern.

“You think? I’m not so sure.”

Neal, bless him, stepped forward. “It reminds me of a Missoni.”

“Missoni? What’s that?” 

Elizabeth hugged her. “A fancy Italian designer. Something Neal knows all about.”

His mother dropped the sweater on the table, gave Elizabeth a bone-breaking embrace and held her arms open. “You must be Neal, come – give me a hug.”

Neal looked at him helplessly. He glared back. Neal walked into his mother’s arms and she held him until his face turned blue.

“Mrs. Burke –“

“Please, call me Margaret.”

Neal gave his mother the full Caffrey – that grin that said, “trust me, I’m pretty, harmless and I really like your family silver/diamond ring/early twentieth-century painting.” Peter wondered whether he should intervene. But then his mother held up that god-awful sweater again.

“Peter, come – let’s see if this fits you.”

Peter felt like he was twelve again. He pulled his sweatshirt off and put on his mother’s latest creation. Or tried to. For all that it was well-made, it was at least two sizes too small. Easing it back off, he couldn’t help but see his mother’s crestfallen look.

“I don’t know where I keep going wrong. Every time I make a sweater for you, it’s always too small. Do you keep growing?”

“Maybe it will fit Izzy?”

“Oh, sweetheart – your sister wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something like this. I’ll have to rip it apart and start from scratch. Just call me Penelope.” She sat down, sweater in her ample lap, looking for all the world like she was going to cry. 

Peter looked helplessly to Elizabeth and she gave him an equally helpless look in return. His father was making a beeline for the back door. Neal, however, decided to play the hero.

“Margaret – may I?” He gently took the sweater out of her hands and put it on over his black shirt. It fit like a dream. Neal flipped out his collar, cocked his hips and stood there with his hand in his pockets, as if he were modeling on a Paris runway. 

His mother sat there, a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in astonishment. “It’s … gorgeous. I’ve never made anything that fit anyone so well.”

“How did you know my size?” Neal turned and gave made a mock-glare. “Did Peter tell you that I’ve always wanted a handmade sweater?”

Peter scrubbed at his eyes. His mother was color blind, and no one ever had the heart to tell her to just work in solid colors. But somehow, the horrendous combinations suddenly look chic and stylish on Neal. And even if it hadn’t fit, hadn’t looked good on him, he owed Neal big time. Not for rescuing him from his mother’s ugly sweater from hell, but for making her happy.

His father, probably sensing the all-clear, popped back into the kitchen. “So when do you want to eat?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal pushed back from the table, or tried to. He felt logy, stuffed to the brim – helpless to do more than grunt, “No, thank you,” when Michael passed him another bowl of utterly delicious fat and carbs. He lost count of the dishes – at least three kinds of stuffing, maybe more kinds of sweet potatoes. The incredibly awesome deep-fried Brussels sprouts. Mashed potatoes. Cranberry relish. Squash. Soup. At least one intermezzo – something cold and scrumptious that he was going to need the recipe for. The turkey should have been irrelevant, but it was moist and tasty, seasoned perfectly.

“More creamed corn?” Elizabeth asked in that sweet, evil tone. 

“I’m going to kill you.” He tried to glare at her. “If I don’t succumb to a food coma first.”

Peter’s dad laughed. “Don’t forget about dessert. We’ll make a Burke out of you yet.”

If he was being ironic or there was some not-so-subtle subtext there, Neal was in no condition to decipher it. But that didn’t mean he was too far gone to see the looks exchanged between father and son.

“I think I need some fresh air. Give me a few minutes – I’ll take Satchmo for a walk and come back to help with the dishes.”

Margaret leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Sweetie, you’re a guest, and in my house, guests don’t do the dishes.”

“Nor do the cooks.” Peter’s dad stood up. “I’ll come with you. Someone’s going to need to hold the flashlight.”

“Dad – I’m sure Neal can manage to walk the dog without assistance.”

“Pumpkinhead – ”

Neal intervened. “Peter, it’s okay. I’m a bit unsteady and wouldn’t mind having someone watch out for me. And you really should stay and do the dishes.” Neal looked over at Peter’s mother, who was gathering up the plates. 

“Just remember what I told you.”

Neal didn’t roll his eyes, and congratulated himself on his restraint. Grabbing his jacket, hat, and the leash, he whistled for Satchmo, who – like every member of the Burke family – had seriously overindulged. He was definitely going to need a good long walk.

The evening air outside the farmhouse was a pleasingly brisk contrast to the food-scented warmth inside, and both Neal and Satchmo perked up after a few deep breaths. Michael, as promised, carried the flashlight, although the nearly full moon provided plenty of light. 

The three of them walked around the exterior of the house in companionable silence. Satchmo was well mannered enough not to do his business on the siding and Neal made a note of the location for cleanup tomorrow.

“Want to meet the herd?” Michael asked after the third pass.

“The herd? Oh – the alpacas.”

“Yeah. They are in the barn – I spoil them terribly.”

 _The dreaded barn_. Neal grinned. “I’d love to.” He let Satchmo back into the house and followed Michael down a small hill.

The barn was a modern structure, but unlike a horse barn, there weren’t separate stalls. The animals were bedded down in a central byre.

“There they are – my pride and joy.” Michael whispered. 

One of the animals raised its head, and then all of them did. Neal was taken by the gaze of a dozen pairs of liquid brown eyes. Michael made a chucking sound deep in his throat and a few of the beasts lumbered to their feet and came over to them. 

“This is Lola –” Michael introduced a tall brunette with the longest eyelashes Neal had ever seen. “And Blondie.” He patted the head of a cream colored female. “And this is Bruno, the capo de tutti capi. Or so he likes to think.” 

Bruno, a parti-colored male, was pushy, shoving his way between the two females to stare suspiciously at Neal. He made a strange chirping sound deep in his throat. Neal got worried. “He’s not going to spit at me, is he?”

“He might.” Michael said with a cheerful lack of reassurance. 

Neal stepped back and to the left. Which was a good thing, because he would have been hit squarely in the chest with a gobbet of something rather unpleasant that came flying out of Bruno’s mouth.

“Come on, let’s go into my office. I’ve got the good stuff in there.”

“The good stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“Single malt whiskey?”

“Not quite.”

Neal followed Michael around the byre and into a small, rather surprisingly luxurious office. “You know, Peter told me not to go with you into your office.”

Michael smirked at him. “Oh did he? What exactly did he say?”

Neal thought for a moment. “He said, if you invite me into your office, just say no.”

“My boy, my Pumpkinhead. My offspring. Such a damn stick in the mud.”

Neal could only respond, “Well, he is an FBI agent.”

“And thank goodness he does that white collar thing.” Michael was rummaging in his desk drawer for something. “And not drug enforcement.”

Neal was at first puzzled, but when Peter’s father held up a small baggie in triumph, everything fell into place. “Ah, so that’s why he said, ‘just say no’.”

“That Nancy Reagan, what a broad.” Michael tossed a packet of rolling papers on the desk, followed by a pair of forceps and a lighter.

“You old … “ Neal grinned.

“Pothead?”

“That’s a word for it.”

“Burner?”

“And another one.”

“Stoner?”

“Been smoking all my life. Or at least since I joined the Army.”

“Peter never mentioned that. Vietnam?”

“Nope got lucky. Spent most of the Sixties in Europe and Japan. Base construction. Peter was born in Germany – spent the first few months of his life there.” Michael said, as he prepared a joint. “Want your own, or do you want to share?”

“I’m a lightweight. Sharing’s fine.” _Peter is so going to kill me. And oddly enough, I don’t care._ “By the way – I think that’s the first time I heard you call him Peter.”

Michael shrugged. “Peter, Pumpkinhead. Same person.” He lit up, took a hit and handed the joint to Neal. “My upright, uptight son. Sometimes I think his ass is clenched so tight, if you shoved a lump of coal up his there, he’d crap diamonds.”

“That’s a very nice thing to say about your son.” The sarcasm was as thick as the air. Michael didn’t need to know that Peter’s ass was definitely not so tightly clenched, at least not all the time.

“It’s the truth.” 

Neal breathed deep, letting the smoke do its magic, holding it until his vision started to fuzz and life took on a very happy, rosy glow. Fragrant smoke filled the room as he slowly exhaled. Neal passed the joint back to Michael, who pinched the burning end out. 

“Moderation in all things, my friend.”

The buzz was good – a mellowing of all the rough edges. “So, tell me why you call Peter ‘Pumpkinhead’.”

“You want to know all my secrets, laddie?” Michael’s voice took on hints of Scotland and Neal wondered if he could get Peter to do a Sean Connery imitation. That would be very sexy. _James Bond – James Bonds_. He began to snicker.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing – nothing. Tell me about Pumpkinhead. Or don’t you want to?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

At some point, after Peter had scrubbed all the pots, washed and dried at least two sinks full of dishes and helped his mother and El put the leftovers away, he noticed Satchmo stretched out under the kitchen table.

But there was no sign of Neal. He went into the den, and found his mother and his wife conferring over some catalog. “El, Mom – have you seen Dad? Neal?” 

His mother answered. “I saw him let Satch back in, but I think your dad took Neal to the barn to show him the herd. They’re probably having a little sit-down in the office. You know your father.” She smiled at him.

“Yes, I know my father all too well.” The pleasant buzz from the wine and the food evaporated like water in a hot skillet. He retrieved his jacket and was about to go out when his mother called after him.

“Take a tin of cookies with you, I’m sure your father and Neal would like some by now.”

Peter gritted his teeth, stalked out the kitchen door, turned around and went back inside to grab the cookies, and headed straight for the barn.

The lights were off in the byre, but there was a slice of light coming from the office. Light and something else. Something like laughter and a whiff of …

Pot.

Damn. Damn it to hell. _Damnittohellandbackagain._

He pushed open the office door. His father was sitting at his desk – or more precisely, he was in his desk chair, which was tipped back at an extreme angle, his shoe-less, sock-less feet resting on top of a pile of papers. There was a pair of forceps in his right hand and a lighter in the other.

Neal was draped on the ancient leather couch – a piece of furniture Peter remembered from his halcyon boyhood. His head was hanging off the edge and he was looking up at Peter with a silly grin on his face. “Hi there, Pumpkinhead!”

His partner, his lover, his best friend was burnt. He closed his eyes and tried to find some patience. “I thought I said to stay out of my father’s office.”

Neal giggled. “You didn’t tell me that your dad was one of the cool kids. He’s got the _best stuff_.”

“Are those cookies?” His father apparently noticed the tin he was carrying.

“Oooh, cookies?” Neal sat up. With his hair mussed, his sweater askew, he looked like a teenager – a delinquent teenager.

“I don’t know if I should share these with you.” Peter put the tin on the top shelf of one of the overstuffed bookcases and pulled off his jacket. It was warm in the office.

“Yer a cruel, cruel laddie, Pun’kinhead.” 

“Dad – I thought we talked about this.” They had, many times – but to no avail. 

“I dinna see anything wrong with a man enjoying a wee smoke.”

Neal giggled. “Your father sounds like Sean Connery.”

For some reason, Michael found that hysterical. “Just call me Bond, James Bond.”

“No – no!” Neal got up and went to his dad, “Say this – ‘Just call me Bonds, James Bonds.’” He was staring intently into the older man’s face.

“Ach, whatever you want.” 

“Waitwaitwait!” Neal fished out his smartphone, and with the utter concentration of the completely wasted, he found the Record button, pressed it and held it out to his dad, who repeated the well-known phrase, but with Neal’s FBI nickname.

Neal collapsed into a boneless heap of laughter, his father leaned back even further in his chair, and Peter grabbed the lighter and the half-consumed joint.

“What do ye think yer gonna do with that, my son?”

Peter glared at his father, he glared at Neal, who was still on the floor, giggling. “I think – I think – I think I’m going to enjoy myself.” He started to light the end, but his father stopped him.

“Ye better get those cookies down now. It’s strong stuff and ye’ll be in no condition to retrieve them after a couple of hits.” 

He reached out and took the tin down, handing it to Neal, who pried the lid off. “Oooh, chocolate-chocolate chip. My favorite.” Peter watched as Neal shoved two cookies in his mouth at once, spraying crumbs as he proclaimed his ecstasy over the confection.

“Give over, Cumulonimbus. I share – you share.” His father held out his hand.

“Cumulonimbus?”

“Yup – that’s my nickname.” Neal sounded so proud of it.

“I don’t want to know. I just don’t…” He picked up the joint, fumbled a bit with the lighter and for the first time since those dark days after his shoulder blew out and his baseball career ended, he took a hit. The cannabinoids hit his bloodstream and then his brain. The stress and aggravation just … went away. He flopped into the familiar embrace of the old couch.

He passed it over to Neal, who took his own hit, and looked mournfully at the smoldering end. “All gone.”

“Ach, laddie. Doncha worry yer pretty head. There’s always more.” His father reached into his desk and pulled out a baggie. Peter thought he should say _something_. 

“You growing this yourself?”

His dad just shook his head. “Son, you really don’t want me to tell you that.” 

Peter nodded, grabbed a cookie from the tin and watched his father expertly roll another joint. His father, always a fountain of wisdom, was right. There were some things he was better off not knowing.

Neal heaved himself off the floor and draped himself across the couch, his head in Peter’s lap. “Mmmm, nice. El should be here, too.”

“Hush.” Peter clapped a hand over Neal’s mouth. Nothing ever changed, drugged-out Neal had no discretion. 

He looked up as his father, who had a gentle smile and a merry twinkle in his eyes. “So, tell me, son. How long have the three of you been sleeping together?”

__

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> _Here's the conversation on the drive home:_
> 
>  
> 
> "I should send you back to prison, you know." Peter grumbled as they pulled out of his parents' driveway. "I thought I told you to stay out of the office in the barn."
> 
> Neal chuckled. "You put me back, you're going to have to explain just how I got stoned, and who I got stoned with."
> 
> Peter didn't say a word. In fact, for the next fifty miles, he gave Neal the silent treatment. Elizabeth filled in the gap, and they talked holiday plans for next year. At breakfast this morning, Michael announced that he and Peter's mother were going on a cruise and Pumpkinhead, Elliebits and Cumulonimbus would have to fend for themselves the next Thanksgiving.
> 
> El chuckled at Neal's new nickname, which reminded Neal that he recorded Peter's father saying "James, James Bonds". He played it over and over, finally setting it up as a ringtone.
> 
> Peter drove and gritted his teeth, listening to his lover and his wife giggle like they were still stoned.
> 
> They finally got onto the New York State Thruway. El and Satchmo were dozing in the back and Neal paying more attention to the game of Angry Birds on his smartphone than to Peter. Peter supposed he should enjoy the quiet - Neal wasn't fiddling with the buttons on the nav system, he wasn't changing the radio station, he was behaving.
> 
> And Peter was just as aggravated as if Neal was acting out like a five year-old on a sugar high. Bad analogy.
> 
> He broke his self-imposed silence. "Can you explain something for me?"
> 
> Neal's phone beeped and pinged and it sounded like he was recording a new high score. Neal finally looked up. "What?"
> 
> "Cumulonimbus. I don't get it. I can usually follow my father's twists and turns when he creates a nickname."
> 
> "Wait - I thought you said there was no rhyme or reason to his nicknaming." Neal was rightfully confused. "What about Isabelle - your father calls her Discoball. You can explain that?"
> 
> "Okay - okay. It's seemingly random, but I can figure it out. Isabelle - Is-a-Ball - Dizzy-ball - Discoball. See, it makes perfect sense."
> 
> Neal laughed. "Yeah, it does. And I guess I'm not surprised you can parse it out, given your love of crossword puzzles."
> 
> "Hmmm, yup. But I can't get from Neal to Cumulonimbus."
> 
> "Well - I'm not exactly sure how it happened either, except I may have told your dad about that conversation we had the first time you picked me up at June's."
> 
> It was Peter's turn to laugh. "My 'cappuccino in the clouds' comment?"
> 
> "Yup, that's the one."
> 
> "Knew that was going to come back and bite me in the ass someday."


End file.
